Chapter 5
Five
BEATRICE O'brIEN
The bruise bloomed beneath my eye like spilled wine on silk. I traced its edges in the vanity mirror, calculating the concealer required to mask Patrick's latest reminder of my place. I’d become really good at covering up his transgressions.
Beyond that, the O'Brien estate's opulence—gilded furniture and crystal chandeliers—merely staged my prison.
"Hold still, Mrs. O'Brien." My lady's maid, Elise, applied Clé de Peau with practiced precision, her eyes avoiding mine. Everyone in this house had perfected the art of not seeing. I stayed put, head held high because I had nothing to be ashamed of. This was just like any other day.
"The neck coverage as well?" she asked, her French accent clipping the words into a clinical delivery.
I glanced at the finger-shaped marks circling my throat. "Yes. Patrick's associates arrive at seven."
My thoughts drifted to Aoife O'Malley while Elise worked. Our meeting had gone precisely as planned, despite missing our second rendezvous—that day, the voices had been too loud, colours too bright. The meds had dragged me back into the grey fog where Patrick preferred me.
Docile. Broken. His puppet to toy with.
"You're smiling, Mrs. O'Brien," Elise noted, concern tightening her features. "Shall I fetch something else to calm you down?"
"No need." I schooled my expression to placid emptiness. "Just remembering something from a book."
"Which one?" Patrick's voice sliced through the room as he appeared in the doorway, menace wrapped in a tailored Brioni suit.
"Fitzgerald. The Beautiful and Damned." I met his gaze in the mirror, keeping my expression neutral despite the surging hatred.
"A classic. You don’t come across as the reading type but looks can be deceiving…
" He approached, brushing aside my hair to expose my neck.
His fingers traced the bruises he'd left, pressing just enough to make me wince.
"I need you to be particularly lucid tonight.
Alexander Moore from the Flanagan family will be joining us for dinner. "
My pulse quickened, though I kept my reaction invisible. "Oh? I thought the Flanagans sent lower-level representatives to these supplier dinners."
"Ronan's in London with your sister." His fingers continued their path down my shoulder, possessive and threatening simultaneously. "Moore handles domestic operations now, and I’d rather see him here, on my turf."
Alexander. Here. Tonight.
The masked man from the hunt would be within reach—the only person in the world who'd seen through my veneer to the darkness beneath.
The one who had dominated me completely, drawn out responses I didn't know my body capable of, then vanished, leaving me with only the memory of his voice and that distinctive crescent scar.
Only, he had no idea I knew.
"I'll wear the blue Dior," I said, voice deliberately bland. "It pairs well with the sapphires from our anniversary."
Patrick smiled, approving my apparent submission. "Perfect. Remember—"
"Be charming but not memorable. Speak when spoken to. Two drinks maximum." I recited my role with practiced ease. "I know how to be a proper O'Brien wife."
"See that you do." He kissed the top of my head, a gesture that might have appeared loving but carried the weight of ownership. "Be downstairs at seven sharp."
After he left, Elise resumed her work, adding another layer to cover the bruising.
"Je suis désolée, madame," she murmured, voice barely audible.
"Don't be." I met her eyes directly. "Nothing breaks that wasn't already cracked."
My gaze drifted to the framed photograph of my mother on the dressing table.
Eleanor Ashford, eternally elegant in Chanel, smiling on some Mediterranean yacht.
After selling me to Patrick, she'd embarked on an extended European tour—"finding herself," she'd called it in her infrequent postcards.
Free as a bird while I remained caged, her perfect sacrifice to maintain her lifestyle after Father's death.
"Your mother telephoned yesterday," Elise said, following my gaze. "While you were resting."
"And what convenient excuse did she offer this time?" I kept my voice light, indifferent.
"She's in Monaco for the season. Said to tell you she's having the most marvellous time with the Rothschilds."
I allowed myself a brittle smile. "How delightful for her.”
The O'Brien dining room was designed to intimidate—cathedral ceilings, ancestral portraits glaring from mahogany-panelled walls, silver service that had graced the table for generations. Patrick stood at the head, playing lord of the manor, while I fulfilled my ornamental purpose at his side.
"Ah, Alexander. Welcome." Patrick's voice carried the false warmth he reserved for those whose power he respected.
I turned, and my head spun. My pulse started to quicken—an impossible feat, yet both fear and excitement broke through the cloud that filled my consciousness.
Our guest moved with controlled grace. Tall and lean, he had been blessed with features that belonged in a Renaissance painting—dark eyes under straight brows, high cheekbones, and a mouth designed for both cruelty and sensuality. His Armani suit conveyed a message power without being ostentatious.
But it was his hands that captured my attention—strong, elegant, with long fingers I remembered against my skin. And there, as he reached to shake Patrick's hand, I saw it. The crescent-shaped scar on his right wrist, exactly as I remembered from the hunt. A vision from my dreams.
"Patrick. Mrs. O'Brien." His gaze swept over me with clinical detachment, no warmth whatsoever in his expression. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Pleased to meet you." I extended my hand, carefully controlling my breathing as he took it. His skin against mine sent electricity through my dulled senses, momentarily burning through my system. "Please, call me Beatrice."
His eyes narrowed fractionally as if noting the slight dilation of my pupils, the barely perceptible tremor in my fingers. I bit my bottom lip. Nothing went past him, it seemed. Of course, he recognized me. I’d worn no mask that fateful night, unlike him…
"Beatrice, then." He released my hand. It was as if we were strangers—and in many ways, we were.
If only he could see what he'd awakened in me.
"Shall we?" Patrick gestured toward the dining room, his hand settling possessively at the small of my back, fingers pressing against my spine in subtle warning.
Throughout dinner, I played my role flawlessly—the beautiful, slightly vacant society wife.
I laughed at appropriate moments, offered refined opinions on art when solicited, and maintained polite interest in business discussions that carefully avoided explicit mention of drugs, money laundering, or territorial disputes.
Yet, beneath this performance, I catalogued Alexander's every movement.
The precise way he cut his food. The controlled sips of wine.
The calculated distance he maintained from everyone.
His eyes, dark and observant, missed nothing—including the moment when my sleeve rode up slightly, revealing the edges of bruising on my wrist.
"The Degas exhibition at the National Gallery was extraordinary," I offered when conversation turned to art. "His dancers capture such beautiful tension between discipline and abandon."
"You appreciate ballet, Mrs. O'Brien?" Alexander asked, his first direct question all evening.
"Beatrice studied dance for years," Patrick interjected. "Though she no longer performs. Isn't that right, darling?"
The subtext was clear to anyone paying attention. Another freedom taken.
"Some art forms are better appreciated from a distance," I replied, allowing just enough edge into my voice to see if Alexander would detect it.
His eyes met mine, something flickering in their depths. "Sometimes the most powerful art leaves lasting marks on its audience."
My breath caught. Was that acknowledgment? A reference to the night he'd marked my skin with rope burns and pleasure so intense, it bordered on pain?
"More wine, Beatrice?" Patrick's voice cut through the moment, his tone carrying a warning only I would recognize.
"No, thank you." I lowered my eyes, resuming my role. "I'm already feeling rather lightheaded."
"My wife's medication makes her sensitive to alcohol," Patrick explained, his hand coming to rest on the back of my neck, fingers pressing against the hidden bruises. "One of many sensitivities."
"Nothing serious, I hope," Alexander commented, his gaze analytical.
"Just the usual feminine problems." Patrick's laugh invited masculine complicity. "Nothing a good doctor and a firm hand can't manage."
I dug my nails into my thighs beneath the table, matching the pain Patrick inflicted with my own. The self-administered sting ebbed after a while.
"You've found a specialist, then?" Alexander asked, not joining in Patrick's laughter.
"Dr. Reynolds is quite forward-thinking in his treatments," Patrick replied, his thumb stroking the nape of my neck in what would appear affectionate to observers. "He understands the value of traditional methods in managing a wife's... excesses."
Dr. Reynolds—Patrick's pet physician who supplied whatever pharmaceuticals Patrick requested, no questions asked. The man who had diagnosed my "hysterical tendencies" without a proper evaluation, who prescribed lithium doses that left me numb and compliant.
"If you'll excuse me," I said, rising gracefully. "I need a moment to refresh."
Patrick's fingers tightened briefly on my neck before releasing me. "Don't be long, darling. We'll have brandy in the study."
I felt Alexander's eyes on me as I left, his gaze like a physical touch against my skin.
In the powder room, I stared at my reflection. Blue Dior dress perfectly showcasing the collarbones and curves Patrick displayed like trophies. Blonde hair arranged in a sophisticated chignon. Makeup flawless, concealing every mark of Patrick's ownership.